As for you, you will follow
Monsieur Wilson and not lose sight of him. He will take a carriage,
and you will follow him with yours, getting up on the hackman's
seat and keeping a lookout from there. Have your eyes open, for he
is a rascal who may feel inclined to jump out of his cab and leave
you in pursuit of an empty vehicle."

"Yes, and the moment I am informed--"

"Silence, please, when I am speaking. He will probably go to the
upholsterer's in the Rue des Saints-Peres, but I may be mistaken.
He may order himself to be carried to one of the railway stations,
and may take the first train which leaves. In this case, you must
get into the same railway carriage that he does, and follow him
everywhere he goes; and be sure and send me a despatch as soon
as you can."

"Very well, Monsieur Lecoq; only if I have to take a train--"

"What, haven't you any money?"

"Well--no, my chief."

"Then take this five-hundred-franc note; that's more than is
necessary to make the tour of the world. Do you comprehend
everything?"

"I beg your pardon--what shall I do if Monsieur Wilson simply
returns to his house?"

"In that case I will finish with him. If he returns, you will come
back with him, and the moment his cab stops before the house give
two loud whistles, you know. Then wait for me in the street, taking
care to retain your cab, which you will lend to Monsieur Plantat if
he needs it."

"All right," said Palot, who hastened off without more ado.

M. Plantat and the detective, left alone, began to walk up and down
the gallery; both were grave and silent, as men are at a decisive
moment; there is no chatting about a gaming-table. M. Lecoq
suddenly started; he had just seen his agent at the end of the
gallery. His impatience was so great that he ran toward him,
saying:

"Well?"

"Monsieur, the game has flown, and Palot after him!"

"On foot or in a cab?"

"In a cab."

"Enough. Return to your comrades, and tell them to hold themselves
ready."

Everything was going as Lecoq wished, and he grasped the old
justice's hand, when he was struck by the alteration in his features.

"What, are you ill?" asked he, anxiously.

"No, but I am fifty-five years old, Monsieur Lecoq, and at that age
there are emotions which kill one. Look, I am trembling at the
moment when I see my wishes being realized, and I feel as if a
disappointment would be the death of me. I'm afraid, yes, I'm
afraid. Ah, why can't I dispense with foll